No Happily Ever After
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: After The Fall, John's left struggling with problems that he thought he'd never have to face. Unfortunately, the struggle is a near-downright losing battle. Fortunately, it's been three years. Sherlock has no intention to let his doctor struggle by himself any longer. Spoilers for Reichenbach. John character study to begin with.
1. Chapter 1

**No Happily Ever After**

_Hello._

_Are you ready for the story?_

_This is the story of Sir Mopes-a-Lot..._

John Watson's life had, inevitably, been turned upside down on June fifteenth. Four words, _"This is my note"_, one plea, _"Sherlock!"_, and one fall. One fall that lasted only seconds. But one fall that would have consequences that lasted much longer.

Pain. So much pain. John had never been a stranger to pain, being a war doctor, but he had never experienced so much pain. He lost track of the pain, after awhile. He lost track of the time. The pain overtook everything, but John couldn't even hang onto that. It was a time in his life where he had spiraled into something dangerously close to what most would call dark. But it wasn't just darkness- it was life without Sherlock.

Sherlock had been the light in John's life. He had been the flickering flame that kept the doctor from falling headfirst into a chasm of loneliness. The flame had been extinguished. Life had been had. Blood had been spilled. Sherlock was gone.

John had become a shell. Something that was left over from the days of Sherlock. A robot, a machine, complete with a walk-and-talk function but still not quite... human. And John didn't know how long those days lasted- how long he stayed in the dark. Until one day, when he had woke up, he was staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by unfamiliar things that had become his new life.

He had tried, after that. He had tried to somehow find his way back into a life once lived. He had found that nothing was the same.

There was still... absolutely _nothing_ that was the same. But John Watson had returned to life. He wouldn't get a happy ending to this messed-up fairy tale, but he'd damn well witness the ending anyway.

_Sir Mopes-a-lot was the most depressing and cynical knight at the Round table. But soon, the other knights began to grow tired of his dismal attitude and depressing demeanour, and some of them began to wonder..._

_Is Sir Mopes-a-lot ever happy?_

Three years had gone by from that dark time to this softly glowing period. Things weren't the same. But John had the mild impression of normalcy working again. That was the most that people could ask for.

John glanced towards the window of his flat, blinking tiredly. He'd gotten on well enough at the surgery, after he had re-emerged from his therapy sessions and dark despondency. There was a particular strain of virus going around all of London, it felt like, and John was treating up to six cases of it a day. It was not particularly outstanding- just a fever virus- but the constant in-and-out of patients in the office had worn him down. He was to the point where he was sure that he was coming down with the illness as well. He couldn't be sure, though. He spent a lot of days wondering if he were coming down with something, when the truth was that he had never really recovered from the worst illness.

He raised a hand to his head wearily, rubbing his forehead hard. There was pain building there; whether it was from lack of sleep or illness, John didn't know. He didn't like to self-diagnose. He always tended to stretch the facts. He didn't need something else to worry about.

_Oh, no. So, one of the knights went to King Arthur and said "I don't believe Sir Mopes-a-lot will change. He's just a lost cause with no hope of ever recovering"._

_And then... Even the King began to wonder..._

John would have hit the duvet had he not ordered a take-away; he was mildly sure that eating was good for him. He didn't feel like eating. The hunger just wasn't there. He ate, simply for the fact that worse things would happen if he didn't. He didn't want to eat, but he did, and he now understood why Sherlock had always wanted to skip breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

However, unlike Sherlock, John relished in sleep more than he used to. At first, he had avoided sleep. He had gone straight days without really sleeping, drinking too much tea and making too much coffee in the downtime. He had dealt with hallucinations in the end, Sherlock whispering demands into his ear, demanding that he _took a kip, for God's sake_. John knew that no sleep for any extended period of time could cause hallucinations. By the time that John actually passed out from overexertion, he hadn't known if he had purposefully gone seeking those hallucinations or not. The simple explanation was that he hadn't wanted to sleep in fear of dreams. The more complex explanation... Well, John wasn't even sure if he had figured out the answer to that.

The doorbell rang, a solid knock following. John removed his face from his hand, standing too quickly. Pain rushed down his legs, the feeling of pins and needles stabbing at him tenfold as he gripped his cane tighter between his fingers and put the weight of his body on that. Bloody thing. Psychosomatic. He knew going back to the cane had been a sign of weakness, a sign of giving in and giving up. But, he hadn't cared. He had gone back to the cane, nearly incapacitated by the inability to stand on his own.

_But, was that the end of Sir Mopes-a-lot's problems? No._

_It wasn't, was it?_

John limped to the door, sliding the chain and opening the door. "How much do I owe you?" he asked absentmindedly, fishing in his pocket for the money that he knew he had had earlier. There'd been quite the betting match on rugby at the pub, so he was quickly losing out on money well-earned. That was fitting; he was always the one losing, never the one winning.

"Nothing at all."

John's head snapped up before his mind had even collected the thoughts suddenly shooting through his head. That voice. He knew that voice. Only one person had that voice...

None other than Sherlock Holmes was standing in John's doorstep, box of take-away in one hand, a shopping bag in the other.

"Hello... John."

The grip on his cane faltered, he felt himself tipping, falling, noticed the odd look passing Sherlock's face. That's when John's senses became lost to him- a gray mist covered his vision and blocked out the most surprising display in front of his eyes yet.

When he came to, he came to dark curls, pale skin, curious eyes- were they green, or were they blue?- directly in his line of vision.

"Ah, John, you've finally come back around. I did expect for my reappearance to be a shock to your system; however-"

John jerked backwards in the chair he was sitting in, his back hitting the unyielding wood harshly. Wooden chair meant kitchen, John realized belatedly, blinking hard as he took the hesitant look away from Sherlock and around the room. Yes, he was in the kitchen. Take-away, steaming slightly, the smell of pasta wafting out to him, was sitting on the table, along with the shopping bag that John had seen (thought he'd seen). He looked back to Sherlock (or Sherlock's apparition) with some trepidation.

Sherlock had stopped talking and had settled himself with giving John one of those hard-earned looks that Sherlock had usually reserved for deduction. John licked his lips, somewhat nervously. Sherlock seemed to be returning the nervousness (it had to be a hallucination, _had_ to be, because Sherlock didn't have _emotion_) as he shifted his weight from left foot to right foot.

"So, uhm," Sherlock started, seeming at a loss for words. He had to be conjured from John's mind, he had to be an illusion, he _had_ to be... "I bought milk," Sherlock stated firmly, gesturing in his lethargic way to the shopping bag. "And I paid for your take-away... Still sticking with the Italian place, then? There's another one across town that you haven't been to... It's new, but it's nice."

If Sherlock had had something else to say, he didn't get the chance, because John suddenly leaned forward and clapped his hands around Sherlock's arm. Sherlock didn't flinch although new apprehension flared up in his eyes. "Yes, John?"

"You're..." John's breath left him in a rush as he gripped Sherlock's elbows. "You're not real..."

Sherlock frowned, his frown that was usually reserved for idiots. "Of course I'm real, I'm standing right here. Good God, John, has your mind really deteriorated _that_ much?"

John flinched delicately. Of _course_ his mind had deteriorated. _He_ had deteriorated. What did Sherlock expect- oh, _God_, he was thinking like he was real, he was thinking like Sherlock was actually _here_.

"John."

"Sherlock-" Despite his conflicting emotions, John found the notion of Sherlock being here, being _real_, being _alive_... He gripped Sherlock's elbows tighter and drew the detective close, earning a half-muffled huff from Sherlock as John wrapped his arms around him. "You're alive- you really-" he trailed off on a sob, sucking a deep breath in to regain some control.

"Yes... Yes, I-I am, aren't I?" Sherlock muttered, a half laugh on his breath. "Curious how these things turn out."

John broke the hug, pushing Sherlock away to an arms-length distance again. "_How_ did you-" John trailed off, taking another deep breath. Sherlock's eyes were on him, locked on his, no doubt assessing every flash of emotion that passed the doctor's face. John, his tongue catching on every word, his throat locked up against any verbal complaint, only frowned. He couldn't tell if he wanted to hug Sherlock again... or punch him. Unfortunately (or fortunately), his emotions were too tousled for him to decide one way or the other.

"So... Pasta and milk?" Sherlock asked, striding away from John and the cabinet. He nicked a mug from the shelf and looked back to John, eyes questioning. "Or...?"

"Something... something stronger than milk, I'd imagine," John said after a moment, smiling faintly as he stood.

* * *

**I finally started my rendition of The Reunion. Another overrused idea! ****This is going to be a two-shot. I meant for it to be a oneshot, but found I can't rush it that much, and I didn't want it to be extremely long. I'm sure you can imagine how the second chapter will go; first, the shock, and then... **

**Regardless, this can be read as a oneshot if you want it to be.**

**Your thoughts are welcomed. (: Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

"_How_- you-" John stumbled over his words after the end of Sherlock's very long and very eccentric tale. Had it been anyone else telling him this story, John wouldn't have believed them. But this was Sherlock. John had, unwittingly, started believing in Sherlock ever since the first day. And he had never stopped. It had gotten hard, but he had never stopped.

"It was complicated, John. You have to understand- actually, you probably won't, but at least try," Sherlock said, spearing a piece of pasta with his plastic fork.

"I'm trying, Sherlock, but I'm still fuzzy on _why the hell you couldn't tell me_."

"You're not really trying," Sherlock replied, placing the pasta in his mouth. "It's fairly easy to understand that point-"

"No, it's really not," John fired back. "I am your _best friend_, Sherlock, actually, as far as I know, I'm one of your _only_ friends."

"I couldn't tell _any_ of you! They had targets on your foreheads, prepared to pull the trigger if I didn't fall. You have to understand-"

"Do I?" John interrupted, his voice stopping Sherlock as the detective went to spear another piece of John's take-away. Sherlock's eyes looked from the pasta, to John.

"You're upset," he stated, sitting up straight again. "I don't understand."

"And you say that _I'm _a lost cause."

"I just don't understand why you're still upset. I could... empathize with you... while I was gone, while-while you didn't know, but now you know the truth, so I can't fathom why you're still upset."

"_Because_, Sherlock, I went for _three years_ thinking you were dead! You have no _idea_ what I've been through!"

"I've been watching, John."

"That doesn't make this any better!"

Sherlock sighed, going back to John's pasta. "Look-"

"Stop eating my take-away!" John demanded, grabbing the box and pulling it towards him.

"John, you're being childish. I paid for it."

John stabbed his fork stonily into his Italian, shoving it into his mouth. He didn't say anything else, although he caught the dirty look that Sherlock was giving him.

It was silent for a few moments.

"I only did it to protect you," Sherlock said quickly, on the offhand.

"You," John started, almost too quickly as he almost choked on his food, "could have _told_ me. If they thought you were dead, when they saw you- fall," his voice stuttered, "you could have told me afterwards. You could have, I don't know, gotten a burner phone or something. If Moriarty was dead-"

"But his henchmen weren't!"

"How would his henchmen know if you'd call me?!" His voice was too loud, too laced with anger and venom. It was the poison that had been tainting his mind for the past three years, coming to voice. He had been collecting each thought, each word, in his mind, never expecting to say them out loud, much less to Sherlock. But now, now every word was fresh on his mind, falling off his tongue, and he couldn't stop the anger that he'd been harnessing the past three years.

Sherlock looked at him, a level-headed gaze that John thought was supposed to speak volumes, volumes that John didn't have the desire to listen to. "It was a risk. It was not one that I was willing to take."

John gave half a laugh in return. "You, the king of Risk-Taking, weren't willing to take this risk. Right."

"_Lives _were on the line, John!"

"You never cared before! Why start now?"

There was a flash of something that looked suspiciously like hurt that crossed Sherlock's eyes. "John..."

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, unwilling to admit that the emotion in both Sherlock's eyes and voice was the deciding factor for his temper. Angry, they would get nowhere. It would take a rational mind, from both of them, to get past this hiccup in their relationship.

"You and... Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly... You are important. To me," Sherlock clarified. His voice faltered at the end, and for once, John thought that Sherlock was unsure of himself. Not unsure of his attachment to his friends, but unsure of... speaking aloud? Unsure of speaking words that actually _meant_ attachment out loud? Was that it? "I didn't want anything to happen to you. Anything... more, anyway."

"Right... Right, I, I understand. Right," John repeated, looking into his diminishing pasta. "I suppose I should be thanking you. I mean, I'm glad that, you know, we didn't get shot but-" He looked up, pinning Sherlock with his eyes. "I would have taken that bullet for you, Sherlock. I hope you know that."

Sherlock didn't move for a moment, obviously deducing or whatever it was he did in that funny but functioning brain, before he nodded slightly. "I know. That's why I had to do it."

John heaved a sigh, raising his eyes to rub his weary eyes. "Selfless as usual, yeah?"

He could practically hear Sherlock smirking. "As usual."

John only shook his head, pushing his take-away back into the middle of the table.

They weren't all right. But they might get there soon.

* * *

**After writing this... I'm not so sure if John would punch him... I initially thought that, but now I'm not sure. He would be angry, of course, and surprised, and obviously grateful... Anyway, thanks for following the story! I hope you enjoyed it!**


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